Eleftherios
by Sarathiel
Summary: Heracles gets all the credit. But who -really- freed Prometheus?


**Eleftherios**   
Sarathiel 

A/N: Okay, the idea of an upgrade of fire is Terry Pratchett's idea [from Hogfather] but I couldn't think of a better way to end the story. :\ And yes, I am a bad child, I wrote a humor story involving Greek mythology and livers. ;_; 

  


`*´

Peck.   
Peck.   
Peck. 

The rhythm was somewhat soothing, if you could forget the tearing agony it brought. I tried to avoid glancing at my ruptured innards, but there wasn't much else to see. The landscaping in Tartaros is hardly inspiring. 

Yet again, I watched chunks of my liver vanish into the bottomless pit before me, a mangy pile of feathers and claws sent by my ever-loving cousin Zeus. My belly was all slimy and red with blood. I winced. This was _not_ part of the job description when they asked me to create humans. 

And suddenly, after centuries of this excrutiating torture, I snapped. "WHAT is your PROBLEM?" 

The eagle looked at me, long strings of crimson trailing from its beak. After an awkward pause it blinked fierce golden eyes and inquired in a clipped, cultured voice, "Pardon?" 

I glared at it. "Can I go ONE bloody DAY without you EATING my bloody LIVER?" 

The eagle ducked its head abashedly and shuffled its clawed feet—which, incidentally, were digging into my flesh since it had to perch near my poor beleaguered organ. "I had no idea you felt this way on the matter," it confessed. 

"Well," I said blankly, "did you suppose I _enjoyed_ being munched on?" 

"I never really thought about it," replied the eagle. It gave me an owlish stare. "There is, however, the matter of Zeus's wrath . . . if he found out I wasn't eating your liver he'd be angry _again_, and my punishment would be even worse. I might have to eat your . . . your. . . ." 

"My what?" 

"_Spleen_," said the bird, and shuddered. 

I rolled my eyes. "Terrifying. Wait—this is a punishment for _you?_" 

"Did you suppose I _enjoy_ eating raw bloody squishy liver every day?" the creature snapped. 

"I never really thought about." I sighed heavily and stared at the eagle. It was a lovely raptor. Larger than average, sturdily built, and the wings! Charcoal, sienna, and bronze stirred together and painted on feathers that look as though they could slice meat (although I knew from personal experience that the beak handled that affair). Not only that, its gaze was remarkably intelligent. I didn't remember eagles as being particularly clever; gave it all to cursed ungrateful humans. "Why were you punished?" 

"Bit Zeus," it replied promptly. "That's why I'm so smart. Blood of the immortals has interesting properties, you know." 

"Zeus isn't smart. . . ." 

"Well," said the bird impatiently, "maybe his blood is, then. Either way, he decided as punishment I would have to come over here and . . . gnaw on that festering mass of gory pulp every day. It's terrible." 

I glared at it, rather offended by this description of my liver, before deciding that I really couldn't blame the creature. "Do you have a name?" 

"Khrysokles," it said with a crisp nod. 

"Nice name." 

"Thank you." 

After that the conversation began to languish. We chatted about odds and ends, the latest Olympian gossip, who killed and ate whose children, the works. After a while I stopped listening. For all their seeming dignity and ferocity, eagles can be downright boring. 

". . . and then," the bird was saying, "_Celaeno_ said—" 

"Hold on," I interrupted, and it stared at me. "Maybe we should stop." 

"Stop?" it echoed. 

"Stop," I confirmed. "You know. You cease the devourage of my liver, I stop . . . I stop being eaten." 

Khrysokles eyed me worriedly. "You mean . . . stop?" 

"Yes," I snapped. 

"Zeus'll be angry," it murmured, its feathers fluffing up. "Very angry." 

I nodded, and winced in pain at the actual use of muscles; those which hadn't been eaten or torn were sore from centuries of struggling. "Zeus is always angry." 

"A point," it conceded. "In which case it would be wise to avoid angering him further." 

"Yes, but. . . ." I fell silent, staring mournfully at the putrid mass of guts spilling from my belly. "Why did he do this, anyway? Chain me to a rock like this? Have you ingest my innards?" 

"I believe he thinks it kinky," the eagle observed solemnly. 

"Kinky? Zeus finds blood and chewed-up liver _kinky?_" I shrieked, staring at my mutilated torso in horror. 

It sighed. "Well, I was referring to the chains, but. . . . Honestly, Prometheus, this is the tamer end of the spectrum. You should see what he does with Europa. At least with you it just stays at kinky. And Ares and Aphrodite, now you should _hear_ . . ." 

"No!" I yelped, wishing I could cover my ears. "I'd rather not!" 

Khrysokleos sighed again, a bit regretfully, and to my relief backwinged off my ruptured flesh onto a nearby ledge. It spent a few moments prissily straightening wayward feathers before looking back at me, still fluffed anxiously. "You're sure about this?" 

"Khryse," I said, "I do not want to spend eternity watching a bird, no matter how polite it may be, consume my liver." 

"It could get worse. You know . . . your. . . ." 

"Oh shut up," I snapped. "It might as well be my spleen. I can't tell the difference." 

"I can," the bird said glumly. "You generally do, after eating them." 

I sighed and stared into its amber eyes. "So. We going to do this or not?" 

Khrysokles hesitated for only a moment. "We are." 

Its beak broke the chains easily, and we caught the next train out of Hades. Our vegetarian grocery ("Methe and Khryso's") is doing quite well, and Khrysokles has even found itself a mate, raised a nestful of cheeping eaglets. All is well, and I must admit I'm content here. My spleen and liver are both doing well. But sometimes . . . sometimes . . . I catch myself staring up at the heavens, a burning torch gripped in one hand—and thinking. I've already stolen fire, but . . . 

There's got to be an upgrade, right? 


End file.
